By Ishita Dalvi
Grandma told her stories over a cup of tea.
Tea. Warm, fragrant and comforting.
She picked her favorite cup and saucer-
Blue, floral; that sat pretty on the white tablecloth.
They were no less than a fairytale
Her farms, her own meadows
Her cattle, the animals she could talk to
Her own pool, the nearby river that flows
Summers went by chasing butterflies in fields
Monsoons meant dancing in the puddles
Autumns belonged to Diwali festivities
Winters were spent around the earthen stove, huddled
Her tales full of games I have never heard of
An abundance of freshness- fresh fruit, fresh air
A wealth of sunsets and songs and stars
Her simplicity in life was her flair
Grandma tells her stories over a cup of tea.
Tea. Scalding hot, bitter and strong.
She picks the plain cup and saucer-
Off white, much like the tablecloth.
They are no less than a nightmare
How she wasn't allowed to talk to her own father
How she wasn't sent to school after 4th grade, but
Her brothers' education was encouraged, rather
Raised in a cage of restrictions
Quietly enduring injustice made you 'nice'
To be able to call a day good, the absence
Of profanities and beatings would suffice
How she was married off at only 16
Not allowed to go back home until pregnancy
Forever a servant in their home- his kingdom
Fulfilling his demands, her only urgency
Her tales are full of torture I can't bear to think of
An abundance of degradation- slurs and slaps
A wealth that is only monetary
She got no breakthrough, only relapse
The pearl white tablecloth, now tea-stained
A stain it may forever wear
Looks at me teasingly
For I am unaware of the stories it bears